


Cookies and Cthulhu

by diner_drama



Series: The Rise Bakery [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bakery, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, HP Lovecraft was a racist, I made the Avengers play D&D and it made me happy, M/M, Only with actual sugar, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Sugar Daddy, Unless baking is a superpower, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes, shrinkyclinks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-20
Updated: 2019-07-31
Packaged: 2020-05-15 10:24:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19293805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/diner_drama/pseuds/diner_drama
Summary: The Rise Bakery was a homely type of place, for an establishment run by three ex-assassins.After retiring from Special Forces with a sizeable pension, a lot of weight on his conscience, and a top-of-the-line prosthetic arm, Bucky Barnes was ready to start doing some good.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first ever Stucky fic! I've been heavily influenced by all the other bakery AUs and various tumblr posts I've read. 
> 
> In this, Tiny Steve is a cocky little shit (except when it comes to his artwork) and Bucky's a big flour-covered soft bun.

The Rise Bakery was a homely type of place, for an establishment run by three ex-assassins.

After retiring from Special Forces with a sizeable pension, a lot of weight on his conscience, and a top-of-the-line prosthetic arm, Bucky Barnes was ready to start doing some good.

His best friends and comrades in arms, Natasha and Clint, were, as ever, right behind him and ready to back him up. They'd both emerged from their service physically in one piece, but they'd seen enough trouble to last a lifetime.

When the coffee shop-slash-bakery that Bucky had worked at all the way through college had been put up for sale, he didn't hesitate to forge his friends' signatures on the deed and put their money down (they were neither annoyed nor surprised, which said a lot about their relationship), and to get to work building something good. They wanted to prove to themselves that they could create and not just destroy.

Together, they had created something good.

Rise was a home for all three of them - they each had an apartment in the tower block above the café (although Bucky often joked that Clint probably slept in the vents instead), but they spent most of their time here.

The coffee shop was warm and inviting, with overstuffed leather sofas, soft lighting, and booths carefully designed so that the acoustics made you feel there was nobody in the world except the person opposite you. Rise was a popular spot for first dates for this reason.

It was known among the homeless community of Brooklyn that Rise was a place where a quiet word with the staff could get you unlimited free hot coffee, and first pick of the leftover pastries at the end of the day. A lot of the guys who came in, shivering and dishevelled, were veterans themselves.

"There but by the grace of God," Natasha would say, with a shrug, when asked about the business case for this policy.

An ancient and decrepit upright piano was tucked against the back wall, and Clint could occasionally be persuaded to accompany Bucky and Nat as they launched into one of their duets. Customers sometimes even made requests - usually, they requested for them to stop singing.

(At Natasha's suggestion that Clint should play the piano with a pencil clenched between his teeth like Beethoven, he scowled at her and turned his hearing aids off for the rest of the day).

There was a "take a book, leave a book" shelf, a sizeable stack of board games, and a temperamental coffee maker that hissed a lot and frequently gave third degree burns to everyone except Nat. If you turned up to meet your Tinder date and they weren't who they said they were or they started getting creepy, Clint would call you a cab while Natasha physically intimidated them for you. They hosted knitting circles, LGBTQ coffee groups, and even a regular Dungeons and Dragons night.

Bucky loved the community they'd built around the place, but he had to admit that his favourite parts of his new life were the quiet pre-dawn hours he spent by himself in the big kitchen, kneading dough, baking cookies, and coming up with new ideas for pie fillings. It was almost meditative, the physical act of creating things that would please and nourish other people. It had taken a while for him to feel like a whole person again after rehabilitating into civilian life, but humming to himself inside that peaceful room, he felt complete.

On this particular morning, he was wearing his long, dark hair swept back in a bun, with a hairnet over the top for good measure, as he pounded the dough for tomorrow's slow-prove sourdough loaves. He was in his favourite black jeans with a red long-sleeved henley shirt pushed up to his elbows, his metal arm glinting under the fluorescent lights. He'd have cut quite the dashing figure if he hadn't been covered head-to-toe in flour.

Bucky whistled the first few bars of _Down by the Old Mill Stream_ while he scraped the dough into a bowl and rinsed off his hands. Leaving the bowl in a warm drawer with a tea towel draped over it to rise, he busied himself disinfecting the table surface with fastidious thoroughness. He put a little less effort into trying to get the flour out of his clothes, knowing a hopeless case when he saw one, and just brushed himself down to get the worst of it off until he was roughly presentable.

Grabbing a tray of white chocolate and raspberry cookies, still hot from the oven, in his metal hand, he balanced three pies along his other arm and made his way up the small staircase that separated the kitchen from the coffee shop.

"James," said Natasha when she spotted him. "That's a dumb way to carry pies."

He shrugged, making the apple-blueberry lattice on his upper arm wobble alarmingly. "Little help?"

She relieved him of his pastry burden, rolling her eyes.

"How the hell else would you carry three pies?" asked Clint from his perch atop the counter. "Some kind of magic pie-carrying robot?"

"A tray," she murmured, arranging the pies in their places in the display cabinet. "A little old-fashioned, I guess, but still effective."

"Are you even on shift this morning?" said Bucky, sliding the still-hot cookies onto a wire rack to start cooling.

"No," she replied, "but someone has to keep an eye on you two idiots." As if to prove her point, she stood on her tiptoes to pull off the hairnet that Bucky had forgotten to remove from his head.

"Thank you," said Bucky, handing over her copy of _The Devil Wears Prada_ and firmly ushering her over to one of the more comfortable sofas. "Your service is appreciated."

The worst of the morning rush was already over, so Bucky spent a little time wiping down tables and straightening up the displays before he stationed himself on the high stool behind the counter. There were a few regulars dotted around the tables, but otherwise the shop was quiet enough that he could probably get through a few chapters in _The Complete HP Lovecraft_ before anyone bothered him.

Just as he was about to discover what nameless eldrich horror was terrorising the sleepy village of Dunwich, the bell over the door jingled and in walked the cutest little twink that Bucky had ever seen.

Swimming in a blue hoodie that must have been at least three sizes too big for him, he was yawning and sleepily rubbing at his eyes, making little noises of protest at his friend, who was gently but firmly pushing him forwards.

"Steve," said the friend in a long-suffering tone, "you've got to eat."

Another noise of protest. "How can you think of food at this ungodly hour?"

Bucky glanced at the clock. It was 11 AM.

Clint looked over from where he was braiding Nat's hair. "Hey guys," he said to the new arrivals, giving a little salute. "Didn't think we'd see you till Thursday night."

"Sam thinks I need caffeine," said Steve in a surprisingly deep and gravelly voice.

"Cap here has a show today."

"Steve, that's great!" said Natasha.

"Nooo," wailed sleepy little Steve, more animated. "It's _terrible_. My art is _terrible_." He waved his arms around, long sleeves flapping in the air. "I suck at drawing. I suck at painting. I suck at _everything_. The only thing I'm good at is breathing."

"Steve, you have asthma," said Sam, not without affection.

Steve let out a melodramatic groan and flopped face-first onto the sofa.

"Can we get a latte, a black Americano, and a couple of those cookies to go?" asked Sam, shifting his attention to Bucky, who was watching the goings-on with great interest. He slid his book into the big pocket on the front of his apron and stood up to grab a couple of travel cups.

"Sure, that'll be five bucks."

"Cookies?" said Steve, sounding muffled. He rolled over and took a long sniff. "Oh God yes, cookies."

Bucky smirked as he made their coffees, and slid four cookies into a paper bag. "Here you are, folks," he said, bringing them over to the coffee table. "It'll cure what ails ya."

"Thanks, man."

"Yeah thanks, I- wow, hi," said Steve, scrambling upright on the couch and unsubtly raking his eyes up and down Bucky's body. "I haven't seen you here before, handsome, are you new?"

"No, I just-"

"Bucky goes to bed at 8 PM," interjected Clint, ever helpful.

"Yeah," admitted Bucky sheepishly, running a self-conscious hand over his hair. "Gotta be up with the birds to bake the bread."

"Lucky birds," said Steve with a cocky grin. Jesus, this kid.

With no grace whatsoever, Steve shoved a cookie into his mouth, and let out a completely indecent moan.

"Bucky," he said seriously, looking up at him through long lashes, "you may have saved my life."

He chuckled. "Any time, pal."

"Hey, is that Lovecraft?" asked Steve, spying the book in his pocket. "He was a huge racist, you know."

Sam groaned, clearly having heard this speech before, and walked off to start a conversation with Nat and Clint about their next Dungeons and Dragons campaign (which had also, Bucky discovered later, been the subject of a previous rant from Steve about Tolkien's racial essentialism and its subsequent effects on contemporary high fantasy).

"Seriously, even his racist friends used to write him letters telling him to tone it down," continued Steve, undeterred.

"I actually-" started Bucky.

"He named his cat _the n-word_."

"You know-"

"Even if he was a product of his generation, he was really, exceptionally, _extra racist_ , even compared to his contemporaries."

Bucky quirked a smile. "You finished?"

"For now."

"Have you read _The Horror of Red Hook_?"

"Nope."

"He was so disgusted by all the immigrants and non-Christians when he lived in Brooklyn that he felt compelled to write like eight thousand words about them being human-sacrificing biological abominations."

Steve whistled. "Wow."

"So yeah, I'd picked up a little on the racism."

"Yet you're still reading it."

"It's good," said Bucky simply, with a shrug.

Steve seemed to consider this for a moment, giving an appraising look. "My exhibition is actually loosely based on _Call of Cthulhu_ ," he admitted.

Bucky perched himself on the arm of the sofa, feeling as though he had the upper hand. "Really."

Steve ducked his head, burrowing into his big hoodie. "Yeah."

"So you're not going to warn me about the dangers of miscegenation, then?" Bucky teased.

"Well, as a card-carrying member of the master race," he said, gesturing up and down his skinny frame, "I do have a responsibility to make sure these prime Aryan genes go to the right place."

They both laughed - and if Bucky's gaze lingered on Steve's lithe figure for a few extra seconds, what of it?

"So, you're into tentacle monsters."

"For _purely artistic reasons_ , you degenerate."

"Sure thing, punk."

"Steve, we've got to go," said Sam, interrupting their playful bickering.

Natasha, who was now braiding Clint's hair, looked up. "How long's the exhibit running for?"

"A couple of weeks," said Steve, getting up from the sofa and stretching, the last vestiges of sleep (and several cookie crumbs) still clinging to him. "Oh God, everyone's going to hate it," he said, face crumpling.

"Aw, man," said Sam, shaking his head, "I hoped your whole righteous anger thing would keep your mind off worrying so much."

"Here," said Bucky, pressing the book into Steve's hands. "Whenever you start to get nervous, flip to page 117 and you'll spontaneously combust from rage."

Their fingers brushed over the spine of the beaten-up paperback. Steve beamed.

"OK," he said, taking a deep breath to steady himself. "I have racist fiction and a bag of cookies. I can do this."

"That's the spirit," said Clint. "See you for D&D night on Thursday?"

"Wouldn't miss it, Hawk-guy," said Sam, giving them a cheery wave as he hustled Steve out of the door.

"Good luck with _Fisherman's Wife_ or whatever," Bucky called at their retreating backs.

The sound was muffled through the door, but Bucky could have sworn he saw Steve turn to Sam and say "I am going to climb that man like a _tree_."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The exhibition opening had gone fairly well, but the discovery that his favourite bakery also contained a gorgeous nerdy woke beefcake who baked the best cookies was still probably the highlight of his day. What's more, he'd definitely gotten A Vibe from said beefcake, even when he was interrogating him about his taste in fiction. Steve knew that a 5'5" skinny asthmatic with a heart murmur wasn't everyone's cup of tea, but he was _enough_ people's cup of tea to know when someone wanted to take a sip.
> 
> Burrowing into his comforter, he filled his mind with visions of chin dimples and kind blue eyes as he drifted off to sleep, warm and cosy in his crappy little apartment.
> 
> He woke the next morning at 10 AM and peered blearily at his phone. It wasn't his usual custom to be awake before noon, but the necessity of manning his little booth at the gallery would have to overcome his bohemian schedule. Besides, he had plans.
> 
> He had a book to return, after all.

That night, Steve fell exhausted into bed before midnight.

The exhibition opening had gone fairly well, but the discovery that his favourite bakery also contained a gorgeous nerdy woke beefcake who baked the best cookies was still probably the highlight of his day. What's more, he'd definitely gotten A Vibe from said beefcake, even when he was interrogating him about his taste in fiction. Steve knew that a 5'5" skinny asthmatic with a heart murmur wasn't everyone's cup of tea, but he was _enough_ people's cup of tea to know when someone wanted to take a sip.

Burrowing into his comforter, he filled his mind with visions of chin dimples and kind blue eyes as he drifted off to sleep, warm and cosy in his crappy little apartment.

He woke the next morning at 10 AM and peered blearily at his phone. It wasn't his usual custom to be awake before noon, but the necessity of manning his little booth at the gallery would have to overcome his bohemian schedule. Besides, he had plans.

He had a book to return, after all. 

Feeling slightly more human after a shower and brushing his teeth, Steve pulled on a tight pair of skinny jeans, some thick black-framed glasses, and his "Make Fascists Scared Again" t-shirt, which was about four years old by this point, one size too small, and had been washed so many times that you could sort of see his nipples through it.

It turned heads, for several reasons.

Pulling on his big blue hoodie again as a concession to the chilly Autumn weather, he headed off to grace the bakery with his presence. He huddled into his sweater as he made his way out into the crisp air. Rise was fortunately only a couple of blocks away from his apartment, so he wouldn't have to spend too much time in the cold.

The smell of freshly baked bread greeted him as he walked through the doors and into the warm coffee shop.

"Didn't wanna put on a scarf, huh?" drawled a voice from behind the counter. Bucky was carefully transferring a batch of brownies from a tray onto a wire rack and watching him with an amused twinkle in his eyes. "You'll catch your death."

"Thanks, ma." 

Steve hopped up onto a stool at the counter and made a show of removing his hoodie, stretching so that his shirt rode up to reveal a few inches of his taut stomach. He felt rather than saw Bucky's eyes on him. "Good thing I've got a warm place to go."

"What can I get ya?"

"Hmm." He paused for a minute, considering this important decision. "What kind of brownies are these?"

"Jelly bean."

Steve's eyes widened. "You put jelly beans into brownies?"

"It's a little unorthodox, but-"

Steve silenced him with an expansive hand wave. "Bucky, I think you might be a genius."

Bucky smirked, and _blushed_ \- and wasn't that just the cutest thing ever? "One jelly bean brownie, coming up. You want a drink with that?"

"Hot cocoa, please."

"Whipped cream and sprinkles?"

"Well, yeah," said Steve, as though it were obvious. "Otherwise what's the point?"

Bucky turned away to steam a jug of milk for the cocoa. "Where are you even putting all these calories?" he asked over his shoulder.

"Hey, buddy, good things come in small packages, you know."

"I don't doubt that," he murmured. 

He slid over the drink, which was a ridiculous confection with such a high pile of whipped cream that it was in serious danger of toppling over, topped with grated chocolate, a drizzle of caramel sauce, and of course, rainbow sprinkles.

_God bless this man,_ thought Steve fervently, before scooping up some of the cream on his finger and sucking it into his mouth. He heard Bucky make a little noise. Making sure to hold eye contact, he ran his tongue over his bottom lip to catch the last of the cream. With a screech of metal, Bucky crumpled the canister of whipped cream in his metal hand.

Oh, this was going to be _fun_.

As though nothing had happened, Bucky busied himself cleaning up the exploded cream. "How was your show?"

"Pretty quiet, but I did get a couple of sales. I usually do a bit better at comic con, but I didn't want to pass up the opportunity to show my stuff at a real art gallery."

"So it's a graphic novel kind of thing?"

"Yeah," said Steve, perking up. "It's a bit like - have you seen _Neonomicon_?"

"Oh yeah, big fan."

They fell into an animated discussion about comic book artists during which Steve took the opportunity to appreciate Bucky's incredibly cute mannerisms, like the way he pushed his hair out of his eyes, only to have it fall back down every time he laughed, the way the sleeve of his shirt strained over his metal arm when he gesticulated, and his complete inability to hide his interest in Steve's lips as he worked his way through his cocoa.

The coffee shop was cozy and quiet on cold mornings, with the murmur of customers and the occasional hissing from the machines as the only background noises. The cocoa was filling his stomach with a warm feeling, and Bucky was leaning over the counter to talk to him, their fingers almost touching. Steve could happily stay here all day.

"Fuck," he said suddenly, noticing the time. "Gotta get back to the gallery, can't spend all day chatting to cute baristas and eating amazing brownies."

Steve pulled his blue hoodie back over his head, ready to head back out into the cold.

"You really liked the jelly beans?" asked Bucky, breezing past the compliment. "They were a bit of an experiment."

"I genuinely think your brownies may have changed my life."

"Take one for the road," said Bucky, already slipping one into a paper bag.

Yes, some kind of food would probably be useful during the day. "Good idea. How much do I owe ya?"

Bucky waved away his money. "On the house. It's about time I became a patron of the arts."

"I could get used to being a kept man, you know. Oh, here's your book back. Thanks for the loan, it was exactly as racist as described."

"Happy to help."

As he was handing it back, the book happened to fall open on the front page to reveal the drawing that Steve had sketched in pencil during a quiet moment at the gallery - a mass of tentacles encroaching over the page, grasping a single cookie.

"I hope you don't mind, I just-"

"Steve, this is great! You gotta sign this, it'll be worth millions one day."

He huffed a laugh. "I bet that line works on all the boys."

"C'mon, I want to be able to tell people I have a Steve Rogers original."

Steve made a show of sighing and pulling a pencil out of his bag, as though he was _so tired_ of having fans ask for his autograph (a thing which had never actually happened). 

"Fine," he huffed. "Just this once, mind, and only because I like your baking."

Bucky beamed at him as he signed the page, and cheerily waved him out the door.

After taking the subway to the gallery, Steve was happy to get inside the relative quiet of the gallery and head over to his exhibit. 

It wasn't usual to have the artist in residence at their own shows, but Steve had pitched the idea of a "draw your portrait while you wait" booth for a little extra spectacle, and the curators were intrigued enough to let him try it out. The extra money from the commissions wouldn't hurt either - although, he reflected as he munched meditatively on his brownie, if he could keep getting free pastries he might not need the extra cash.

* * *

The next day, Steve was practically vibrating out of his skin as he got ready to head out for his morning stop at the bakery. He told himself that he was just excited to see what new confection Bucky had baked - but he was just as excited to see whether he could make Bucky blush again.

Steve might be a driven artist and a devoted activist, but he was also a shameless and enthusiastic flirt.

Today's t-shirt was sized for ages 8-10 and said "Super Callous Fragile Racist Sexist Nazi POTUS" on the front in large, friendly letters. Thinking of Bucky's concern yesterday, he paired his oversized hoodie with a scarf that his ma had knitted for him. Refilling his bag with paper and spare pencils, he hurried out into the hustle and bustle of the morning, locking his door behind him.

Bucky wasn't there to greet him as he walked into Rise, but Natasha and Clint were both on duty this morning and they enveloped him into a three-person bear hug as soon as he entered the room. After he'd joined their weekly D&D group they'd adopted him as a _de facto_ little brother, and he wasn't complaining. 

"Hey, little Stevie," said Clint, ruffling his hair.

"Hey yourself," he responded, twisting out of Clint's clutches to reorganise his hair, which he'd spent at least thirty seconds on before leaving the house.

"Here for something sweet?" asked Natasha, the picture of innocence.

"What could be sweeter than you, Nat?" he asked, batting his eyelashes at her.

Humming to himself, Bucky walked up the steps, holding two trays of freshly baked pies and looking calm and happy. There was a smudge of flour on his nose, and a magnetic kitchen timer attached to his metal shoulder.

He grinned when he saw Steve and set down his pies.

"Take your pick. We've got cherry, chocolate, vinegar, blueberry, and s'mores. I feel like you're gonna want the s'mores given your sweet tooth."

Steve blinked rapidly, not trusting his ears. "Did you say vinegar pie?"

"Yeah, it's an old pioneer recipe, with apple cider vinegar. Tastes kinda like lemon or apple with texture like custard. It's nicer than it sounds, I promise."

"My ma used to make it all the time," breathed Steve. "I haven't had it in years."

"Wanna slice?"

Clint ran over, shaking his head. "Oh god, Bucky," he said. "Is that the recipe you got from _Little House on the Prairie_? Steve, don't let him feed you his goddamn struggle pie."

Bucky scowled and wordlessly handed over a slice of pie on a plate to Steve, who rapturously slid a fork into the creamy filling and took a bite. He closed his eyes and let out an involuntary noise. The taste took him straight back to being five years old and watching Sunday cartoons with his mother.

"Have you poisoned him? Did he poison you?" demanded Clint, when Steve didn't respond for a moment.

Slowly, Steve came back to reality, licking his lips to savour every moment of the rush of memories. "Do you have ice cream?" he said eventually.

With a grin, Bucky opened the freezer and put a neat scoop of vanilla ice cream onto the plate next to the slice. Steve picked up another forkful of the pie, now with a little bit of creamy, cold, vanilla on the side, and took another bite, breathing a sigh of contentment.

"Bizarre," said Clint. "I'm going to leave you three alone for your weird vinegary orgy." He shuffled away to bother Natasha instead, but Steve's attention was too narrowly focused on the food to notice. 

He looked up and noticed that Bucky was staring, with a fond and awed look in his eyes.

"It's good?" he murmured, not dropping his gaze.

"God, Buck, it's everything." Steve was feeling a little overwhelmed, affectionate and nostalgic, and for once he'd forgotten that he was supposed to be flirting. "Ma would have loved this," he said softly, unconsciously fiddling with his scarf. "Tastes just like home." 

"Thank you," said Bucky with great sincerity, reaching across the counter to lay his hand on top of Steve's. His smile was a ray of sunshine. "That's the best compliment I've ever gotten."

They spent a moment holding hands and grinning at each other like idiots.

"You want a drink with that?" said Bucky after a while, pulling away and giving Steve's hand an affectionate pat.

"Do you have Earl Grey?" Ma's favourite. Might as well stay on the nostalgia train now it's left the station.

"Coming right up."

Scurrying along the street a few minutes later, with half a pie wrapped up in his pocket and a warm travel cup of tea in his hands, Steve grinned to himself and, his objections to the institution of marriage aside, made a personal resolution to marry Bucky Barnes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Post-serum Steve Rogers isn't the only one who can wear teeny tiny t-shirts.
> 
> I think vinegar pie is actually mentioned in _Little House in the Big Woods_ or _Farmer Boy_ rather than _Little House on the Prairie_ , but Clint doesn't know that.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Look at you, smiling," Natasha had said, laser focused on him as he was replaying his conversation with Steve in his head.
> 
> "I smile sometimes," he responded, a little disgruntled.
> 
> "No, Yasha, you glower."
> 
> "It's not my fault that I have Resting Murder Face," he mumbled.
> 
> "It goes with your personality."
> 
> "I'm _wholesome_ ," he insisted petulantly. "I bake pies."

While Bucky sometimes found Clint's combination of blithe unconcern and clumsy mischievousness in the face of Bucky's love interests quite annoying, it was Natasha's interrogations that really made him want to scream.

They had started the moment that Steve left the coffee shop after their first meeting.

"Look at you, smiling," Natasha had said, laser focused on him as he was replaying his conversation with Steve in his head.

"I smile sometimes," he responded, a little disgruntled.

"No, Yasha, you glower."

"It's not my fault that I have Resting Murder Face," he mumbled.

"It goes with your personality."

"I'm _wholesome_ ," he insisted petulantly. "I bake pies."

"You do. You're a teddy bear. Clint, why didn't we introduce Steve to Bucky before?"

"Honestly, I just forget that Bucky exists sometimes."

"Thanks, pal. Always knew I could count on you."

Clint gave a half-hearted salute and went back to reading _The Hunger Games_ , sprawled inelegantly over the sofa with his head hanging down over the arm rest.

The next time they'd met, she'd been even less subtle.

"Steve's cute, are you gonna hit that?"

" _Natasha._ "

"Because I'm pretty sure he wants a slice of your pie, if you know what I mean."

" _I always know what you mean_ ," he hissed.

"Is that a yes?"

"Of course it's a yes."

She looked so smug that Bucky would have kicked her if he didn't value his remaining limbs so much. 

Clint, thankfully, just high fived him.

The third time they met she'd contained herself to an expressive eyebrow wiggle, which was still _extremely annoying_.

The next day, Bucky was humming contentedly as he fished doughnuts out of the fryer, snatching out each one as it floated to the surface, dough cooked to a warm golden brown. He dithered for a few moments over whether to make a glaze or not, but in the end he went for a coating of granulated sugar to add a little crunch. After arranging them onto a tray so that they were lined up in tidy rows, he jogged up the stairs to the till. 

Clint was perched on the counter, juggling yesterday's stale bread rolls. Natasha was sitting by the bread basket, throwing him another bun every few minutes. Bucky greeted them with a nod and tied a clean apron around his waist. 

Their tea selection had become woefully disorganised, and Bucky was sorting it carefully into color order when a bagel hit him with alarming accuracy, square in the back of the head.

"This is why I confiscated your Nerf gun," he grumbled, turning around. "You're creating a hostile work environment."

In response, Clint just jerked his head towards the door, where Steve was walking in with his eyes closed, seemingly being led by his nose.

"I can smell... autumn?" he said when he reached Bucky.

"Pumpkin spiced doughnuts," he grinned. "Hot out of the fryer."

"Is it that time of year already?" Steve made grabby hands towards the doughnuts and Bucky handed him one, rolling his eyes a little. "My inner basic white girl is very happy about this."

"That's a pretty misogynist concept," started Bucky, just as Steve took a huge bite out of his doughnut. Steve's eyes widened into saucers. 

"Like, why don't we treat men's interests in the same way as women's? Nobody calls bacon and video games 'basic white boy stuff', even though they're stereotypically male things. Can't we just let women enjoy things without deciding those things are inherently inferior?"

After a few more moments of chewing, Steve managed to swallow his mouthful. "Jesus, Bucky," he said, amazed. "Just when I thought you couldn't get any hotter."

Bucky blushed.

"Women have been known to like bacon and video games too, James," murmured Natasha dangerously.

"And men drink pumpkin spiced lattes, what's your point?"

Natasha gave him an approving nod, and rewarded him for passing her test by pulling Clint off to the side to deal with an imaginary problem.

Once they were alone, Steve stretched and dramatically pulled off his hoodie, revealing his latest too-small shirt, which was a rainbow monstrosity with "if God hates gays, why are we so cute?" embroidered lovingly on the front. His slim body looked mouthwatering as he rolled his shoulders, the tight t-shirt riding up a few inches. Bucky knew he was doing it on purpose but he rather enjoyed the little show so he wasn't about to complain.

"I like your shirt."

"I like your _face_."

This amount of blatant flirtation was turning Bucky into a blushing fool.

"Thanks," he managed. "I grew it myself."

"Can I get a pumpkin spice latte to go with my doughnut?" said Steve, as though he wasn't going to leave here with at least four doughnuts.

When he waved him out the door a little later, Steve had a hot drink in his hands and a bag of doughnuts in his pocket. Bucky felt a surge of pride to know that he was keeping his favourite little artist fed, warm, and happy.

* * *

Bucky's early bedtime might seem a little weird to some, but it was a baker's lot to wake before the sun, and while he knew from experience that he could function on very little rest if necessary, he no longer had to. Civilian life afforded him many opportunities to get a full eight-to-ten hours of sleep, and he made full advantage of it whenever possible.

There wasn't a lot of furniture in Bucky's apartment - it's not that he couldn't afford it, he just didn't need it because he spent most of his waking hours downstairs in the bakery - but he'd bought the best mattress he could find, and sheets so silky soft that he felt like he was sleeping wrapped in a cloud.

Natasha frequently bought him stuffed baking-themed toys as gag gifts (all of which he claimed to have disposed of), but if he fell asleep every night cuddling a squishy cinnamon roll with a happy face, what of it?

He bedded down for the night, rolling himself up in the sheets like a happy burrito.

Half an hour after he'd dropped off to sleep, he was abruptly awoken by a loud and expensive-sounding crash from downstairs. His military training had him out of bed and alert within seconds, rolling to his feet and pressing an ear to his door. Listening intently, he assessed the threat to his personal safety was low, but the threat to his precious bakery from his idiot friends was high, so he padded downstairs barefoot to take stock of the damage.

The scene that greeted him was not quite what he'd expected. 

One of the smaller coffee tables had been upended, and the silverware scattered on the floor near it had probably been the source of the noise he'd heard, but the thing that had caused it to fall over was Clint. Against all the laws of physics, all 200 pounds of Clint were perched on Natasha's slender shoulders, and she was in the middle of charging directly at Sam while Clint waved a cardboard tube like a jousting lance.

Steve was likewise astride Sam's shoulders with his own paper spear. With one good blow, Clint was unseated from his mighty steed and they both came crashing to the floor. In his victory, Steve was effervescent. "I'm Tiny Steeeeve!" he bellowed, brandishing his weapon. "Who is bold enough to challenge me?"

Bucky cleared his throat. The duellers all whipped around, looking a little guilty, then relaxed when they saw who was standing there.

"Bucky, thank God, we thought you were-"

"What the fuck is this?" barked a rather displeased man with an eye-patch, walking into the room. "I went to the bathroom for one motherfucking minute and you've all gone out of your damn minds."

"Sorry, Nick," they all muttered in unison.

"You have got five minutes to pick up all this shit, get your cookies or whatever, and sit the hell down." He returned to his seat behind a cardboard screen on the table, muttering ominously to himself.

Steve tapped on Sam's head, wriggling to get down from his shoulders, then clambered down him and landed, cat-like on his feet. He made a movement towards cleaning up the spilled silverware, but Sam stopped him.

"I've got this," said Sam. "Go talk to your boy."

"Sorry for the noise, I hope we didn't interrupt your evening." 

Steve raked his eyes up and down Bucky's body and he was suddenly very aware that he was shirtless and wearing a pair of sweats that were riding low on his hips.

"Oh God, you were already in bed."

Bucky shrugged in response. "Was this part of the Dungeons and Dragons game?"

"No," said Steve sheepishly. "In fact we've been explicitly forbidden to sword fight during sessions, but Sam said that he didn't think Natasha was strong enough to lift Clint and it all kinda escalated from there."

He chuckled. "Yeah, that happens."

"Have you played D&D before?"

He shook his head.

"Wanna see what it's about?"

Without waiting for a response, Steve was dragging him by the hand over to the table and guiding him into the seat next to Sam's. He dropped into Bucky's lap before he had time to understand what was happening.

"This is my character, Captain America," he was explaining, as though his back wasn't pressed against Bucky's bare chest. "Nick starts telling us what's going on in the game, then we decide what to do in response, and we roll dice to see whether we succeed at what we're trying to do. Cap's got a really high charisma score, so if we need to charm somebody into giving us something, I'm the one that rolls for it."

"So there isn't a board or anything?"

"Sometimes there's a board to show us where everyone is, but most of the game is played in our imaginations."

"Where is it set?"

"It's a magical land with dwarves and elves and stuff. Kind of a high fantasy world."

"Not the way we play it," said Sam. "This isn't high _anything_."

Steve ignored him, settling himself more comfortably onto Bucky's lap. "Each character has different characteristics based on their race and class, which is just _such_ a problematic concept-"

"Steve," called out a striking brunette from the other side of the table, tapping her pen in annoyance. "You can be a social justice warrior in your own time."

" _Excuse me_ , Darcy, I'm a social justice _bard_."

Nick cleared his throat and they all fell silent. "If you're all quite finished with your nonsense, you all just walked into a tavern."

"I look around the room to see what's there," said Clint.

"Roll for insight."

Clint picked up a twenty-sided die from the table and rolled it. "One."

"You have your helmet on backwards so you can't see a damn thing."

"I'm also gonna see what's there," said Nat. She rolled a ten.

"There are some dwarves here."

Bucky's attention drifted away from the game. He was very aware of Steve's body on his, hardly daring to touch him for fear he'd break. After a while, though, Steve gave a little shiver and Bucky drew his arms around the smaller man without thinking, drawing him into his warm chest and rubbing his arms. Steve seemed perfectly comfortable, dictating his character's actions from the cosy shelter of Bucky's lap. 

The tavern turned out to have a secret passageway leading down to an underground river, which the team seemed to be having a great deal of trouble crossing.

"I, uh, climb on the catfish and ride it across the river?" said Clint in a hopeful tone.

Nick didn't even touch the dice. "No."

"I seduce the catfish for information," announced Steve. There was a collective groan from around the table.

"Steve, you can't seduce _everything_ ," said Sam.

"History would disagree with you." Confidently, Steve grabbed a die and tossed it. "Natural twenty!" he crowed.

Nick muttered something that may have been "I'm too old for this shit," and heaved a world-weary sigh. "Captain America and the catfish share a magical evening. As they have a post-coital cigarette, the catfish points you towards the bridge a little further down the river, which would have been _easily visible_ if any of you had bothered to _look_."

None of them seemed at all chastened by this, and their ragtag band of heroes continued in their quest in a similarly disorganized way. 

It being past his bedtime, Bucky was struggling to stay awake, dropping his head down into Steve's messy blonde hair and cuddling him tighter. Steve smelled like shampoo and pumpkin spice, and he made sweet little noises of contentment, leaning back into Bucky's embrace. 

It was only when Bucky started to snore like a truck that it was gently suggested that he might be more comfortable in bed, and Steve reluctantly hugged him goodnight and sent him back up to his apartment. He curled up between his feather-soft sheets and floated off into dreams of Steve's smile, freshly baked cookies, and talking fish.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I read in an interview that Scarlett Johansson can deadlift 220 lb and I haven't been able to stop imagining her lifting up other Avengers and tossing them about.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Seriously?" A slow, uncertain smile was spreading over Steve's face.
> 
> "You made me look so _good_."
> 
> "I just drew how you look," said Steve, biting his lip and looking shyly into Bucky's eyes.
> 
> "Боже мой," muttered Natasha, getting off her chair. "Stop eye fucking each other in my bakery."

This time, Steve was already sitting at the counter by the time Bucky emerged from downstairs, a tray of macarons in one hand and a dopey smile on his handsome face.

"Hey, sleepyhead," said Steve, leaning over the counter to peek at the little brightly-colored pastries. "What you got for me there?"

"Pistachio macarons with a vanilla cream filling. You're not allergic to nuts, are you?"

Steve shook his head. "Mm-mm. Gimme."

Giving Steve's reaching hands a reproving tap, Bucky plucked a macaron from the tray using his metal hand, with more delicacy than seemed possible. 

"They break easily, treat them with respect," he said, slipping it onto a plate.

"What kinda drink should I have with it?"

"You like Earl Grey, right? You ever had a London Fog?"

"Damn it, Barnes," said Clint, dropping down unexpectedly from the ceiling. "You've got to stop bringing your crazy Pinterest ideas into our place of business."

"What's in a London Fog?" asked Steve, unconcerned by Clint's sudden appearance or his grousing.

"Steamed milk, Earl Grey - Clint, I've told you to stay out of the vents - and vanilla syrup."

Natasha materialised as if from nowhere. "Barton, if you've been crawling around in the ceiling again I'm going to have you skinned."

Clint stomped off, tossing a stale bread roll in one hand with quiet, targeted menace. 

"No-one would know," he muttered ominously to himself as he regarded them through narrowed eyes. 

Entirely unintimidated, Natasha turned to Steve and greeted him with a hug.

"He seems sad," said Steve, eyes darting to where Clint was pointedly sulking in an armchair. "Or maybe vengeful."

"Don't anthropomorphise Clint," she breezed. "It sets a bad precedent." She prodded Steve in the side, making him squirm away. "Did you show Bucky your drawing yet?"

Bucky perked up, interested. "There's a drawing?"

"Steve was sketching all evening after you went to bed, they're really good."

"Nooo," whined Steve, suddenly bashful. "Natasha, you're embarrassing me."

"Well now I have to see them," said Bucky, amused.

" _Fine_ , huffed Steve, pulling his sketchbook out of his bag, "but they're not finished and they're just pencil sketches and they're probably terrible and you'll hate them and-"

"Shut up," said Bucky absently, flicking through the pages. When he found them, he knew exactly which sketches Steve was talking about. "Holy shit!"

Steve buried his face in his hands. "I'm sorry, it's probably really creepy and I shouldn't have-"

"Steve, seriously, shut up," said Bucky, tracing his fingers over the sketches. They were studies, of Bucky, in superhero poses, punching the ground and jumping through the air, his shining prosthetic on full display. Steve had made him look effortlessly powerful, graceful and strong all at once. "I love these," he said, beaming.

"Yeah?" said Steve, looking up from between his fingers. "They're not finished."

"I wanna see them when they're finished. God, you're so talented." Bucky grabbed a napkin and scribbled his phone number down. "You have to send me photos when you're done."

"Seriously?" A slow, uncertain smile was spreading over Steve's face.

"You made me look so _good_."

"I just drew how you look," said Steve, biting his lip and looking shyly into Bucky's eyes.

"Боже мой," muttered Natasha, getting off her chair. "Stop eye fucking each other in my bakery."

"Where are you going?" asked Bucky, who had genuinely forgotten that she was there.

"I'm joining Clint in the vents before you start necking against my coffee machine," she muttered as she fled out of the room.

"Спазибо," called Bucky after her.

"You speak Russian?" asked Steve, eyes darkening in appreciation. 

"I picked up odds and ends from travelling with Nat."

"That's so hot, I love hearing people speak other languages."

Bucky leaned in closer, bringing his lips close to Steve's ear. "Яблоко," he purred.

Steve pursed his lips. "Bucky," he said sternly. "I know that яблоко means 'apple'."

"It's sexier in Russian," he protested.

"OK, well I have to get to work and you have to think about what you just did, so I'll leave you to that and I hope you learn your lesson."

"I won't," promised Bucky. "You need to take something to eat, but these macarons won't survive in your pocket. Take a couple of cinnamon buns, they're a bit more resilient."

Steve left carrying a box of cinnamon buns, a steaming travel mug of London Fog, and Bucky's phone number tucked securely into his pocket.

* * *

Later that afternoon, Bucky's phone buzzed with a text from an unknown number.

**Unknown number:** Bucky did you know that hp lovecraft was also a homophobe??

He grinned. Steve.

**Bucky:** How's the gallery?

**Steve:** Slow. Should be lots of people tomorrow, gonna go in early to get more commissions.

**Bucky:** Does this mean you'll have to wake up before noon??

**Steve:** Jerk. I'll have to miss out on my morning snack :( :(

**Bucky:** I can bring you some pastries.

**Steve:** I wasn't talking about the pastries :P

Natasha's voice was an unwelcome interruption. "James, are you blushing?" 

"I don't _blush_ ," he grumbled.

She raised an eyebrow, and he immediately capitulated. "Steve just called me a snack," he explained.

"Don't break his heart," she said, smiling indulgently, and left him to his texting.

**Bucky:** You'll get your snack.

* * *

Steve didn't look up from his desk when Bucky approached - he was so busy sketching commissions that he couldn't notice anything beyond the piece of paper in front of him. He was conservatively dressed in jeans and a button-down shirt, absent any amusing slogans. 

Bucky pulled an apple from his pocket and placed it neatly in front of Steve's face, right on top of the page he was trying to draw on. Steve looked up, brow furrowed, then broke into a grin when he saw who was standing there. "Bucky!"

Bracing both hands on the table, Bucky leaned in close, voice low and intimate. "Яблоко," he murmured, letting his hair brush Steve's face.

Steve looked a little flushed. "It _is_ sexier in Russian," he admitted.

"Figured you could do with the vitamins. Don't want you getting scurvy."

"Thanks, pal." Steve hopped up from his seat and grabbed Bucky around the middle to pull him into a hug, insinuating himself against his body, his head tucked under Bucky's chin. "Thanks for coming," he mumbled into Bucky's broad chest.

"You haven't even seen your food yet," chuckled Bucky, wrapping his arms around the smaller man, breathing in his clean scent.

"You are my food," Steve murmured, just loud enough to hear. Bucky swallowed.

Steve's arms had reached under Bucky's jacket, so he spent another few happy moments drawing his hands across Bucky's love handles, his abs, enjoying the contrast of the hard muscle that was so soft around the edges, a highly trained, strong body, with a baker's gentle softness. 

Then his brain caught up with him. "Wait, there's more food?"

Bucky produced a paper box from inside his bag with a knowing grin. "Croissants and pain au chocolat, baked fresh this morning."

"God, you're the best." He took an indulgent bite of the crisp pastry and moaned despite himself. Realising that he was shedding flakes of pastry all over the pristine gallery floors, Steve delicately put down the croissant and wiped his hands on his jeans. "These are so buttery, is this even medically safe?"

Bucky shrugged. "We'll find out."

"Have you had a look around yet?"

"No, I was hoping you could come and talk me through the pieces. I don't know much about art."

Steve beamed and flipped over the sign on his table so that it read "closed". Pulling Bucky by the arm, he steered him to the end of the long gallery to begin the guided tour. The walls were painted brilliant white and the whole place had an air of hushed reverence, with visitors whispering to each other under the tasteful lighting. Bucky felt out of place in this fancy gallery, bulky and awkward amongst delicate works of art, but Steve seemed right at home, bouncing on the balls of his feet in excitement.

"The whole collection is about the unknowable and the unimaginable," he started, gesturing at a painting of a man looking over an abandoned dock, murky water lapping at his feet. "Forbidden knowledge and man's folly in his quest for understanding."

He pulled Bucky through every picture, never letting go of his hand. The next painting showed a hideous statue, squat and menacing, lying in a dusty drawer. The next, a book, tightly bound around with belts, the sickly green light painted around it imbuing it with a feeling of malevolent power. The rest passed in a blur - an ominous swamp, a twisted face, a broken submarine, all merging together as Bucky's mind was distracted by Steve's warm hand in his.

The main piece, however, commanded his attention entirely. It filled a whole wall, canvases laid out like comic book panels on a page, telling a story of compelling, sickening dread. A shipwreck, the bodies of the crew drifting between the panels, their faces the very picture of abject horror and, twisting up from the bottom corner, the perfect representation of nothingness. Bucky was transfixed by the sucking void of pure emptiness that drew him viscerally into the horrifying abyss, and looking closer, he could see a single tentacle from some unknowable eldrich beast reaching upwards to wrap around a sailor and pull him into the yawning chasm.

Despite himself, Bucky shuddered, suddenly feeling cold and clammy. Steve was watching him closely, and at this reaction he beamed even wider.

"Jesus Christ Steve, that may be the most unsettling thing I've ever seen."

"That's what I was going for!"

"I almost feel physically ill." He turned to face Steve. "That's incredible, I can't believe the emotions that you've pulled from me using only paint." He looked over his shoulder at the display and then turned back to Steve with a shiver. "I genuinely think you could kill a man with your art."

"Buck," said Steve, delighted, "that is the best compliment I've ever gotten." Steve gripped his hand tighter, stepping closer. "I like that you understand what I was trying to do."

Bucky composed himself a little more and stroked his thumb over Steve's, looking into his eyes with a breathless smile. "You definitely accomplished it."

"You really think it's good?" Steve was so close, Bucky could feel the heat radiating off his skin.

"Yeah - I mean," said Bucky, reverently stroking his hand up Steve's arm, "it's horrible and upsetting - but in a masterful way." 

Steve leaned up on his tip-toes and rested his hands against Bucky's chest, looking up at him with a cocky smile.

"Can I kiss you?" he asked, with the air of a man who already knew the answer.

In response, Bucky grasped his shoulders, leaned down, and pressed his lips to Steve's, who made a pleased little noise and stroked his fingertips over Bucky's cheek, sweeping his tongue along Bucky's lower lip. Bucky opened his mouth, deepening the kiss, and pulled Steve in closer, revelling in the feeling of his soft lips, the rough beginnings of stubble on his jaw, his clever tongue. It seemed like a lifetime before either of them thought to come up for air.

"That was nice," murmured Bucky, leaning their foreheads together. Steve hummed in assent. "Do you need to get back to drawing?"

Steve groaned a little. "Yes, but I want to spend some more time kissing you."

Bucky gave him another fond kiss. "Get to work," he said softly. "You know where to find me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know your favourite lines in the comments!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> By the time Bucky got Steve to measure out the flour, yeast, and salt for the morning loaves, he had lost his twitchy, fretful look and was happily and loudly commenting on the baking process.
> 
> "Don't you have a machine to do that?" he asked as Bucky handed him a portion of dough to knead.
> 
> "Yeah," he grinned, "it's called a robot arm." The arm could reach great speeds with impressive dexterity, scraping and reshaping the dough before thumping it into the table. Steve did his level best, with his two human hands, to match Bucky's speed and strength, but only succeeded in becoming very red in the face and needing to pull out his asthma inhaler.
> 
> "Hey, that was pretty good," said Bucky. "You were nearly there."
> 
> "I had it on the ropes," agreed Steve, wheezing a little.

On Sunday, the bakery was particularly busy, so Bucky didn't have time to visit the gallery to deliver pastries and kisses (Sam picked up a box of muffins to bring to Steve but refused to bring the kiss).

Bucky contented himself with sending over a photograph of cookies baking in the oven, closely followed by a selfie of him eating the leftover raw cookie dough.

Steve sent back a photo of himself surrounded by drawings and eraser shavings, a slightly wild look in his eyes.

**Bucky:** Busy day?

**Steve:** So many people!!

**Steve:** Lots of commissions :) :)

**Bucky:** Remember me when you're rich and famous.

**Steve:** Which one are you again??

**Bucky:** No cookies for you.

They both knew it was an empty threat, but Steve still sent back a picture of his face in an exaggerated pout, and Bucky had to hide in the kitchen to blush in peace.

On Monday, Steve burst through the doors to demand cookies, which Bucky had already baked and were waiting for him behind the counter. Bucky pulled him in for a kiss, hands skating along the hem of Steve's t-shirt, which said "There is no planet B", and was several inches too short.

On Tuesday, Bucky baked a German apple streusel cake, which Steve declared to be the best thing he'd ever tasted, before pinning Bucky against the coffee machine and peppering his face with kisses. His t-shirt, which said "education is a right", strained across his skinny chest and drew Bucky's eyes to unseemly places.

On Wednesday, Steve insisted on Bucky sharing the slice of warm melt-in-the-middle chocolate cake that he'd ordered, and then helpfully licked away the crumbs around his lips for him. "Fully automated luxury gay space communism now", said Steve's shirt.

On Thursday, Bucky was taking a freshly baked treacle tart out of the oven when he heard Steve's voice from upstairs, in conversation with a woman with a clipped BBC accent.

"You're going to love him, Peggy," he was saying. "He's so cute, and he _bakes_."

"He seems to make you smile, darling, and that's good enough for me."

Bucky walked upstairs with the pie dish in his metal hand, wiping flour from his forehead self-consciously.

"Bucky!" said Steve, delighted, on seeing him. "This is my best friend, Captain Peggy Carter." He indicated the woman standing next to him, a striking beauty with an unmistakable military bearing.

His deeply ingrained training kicking in, Bucky snapped to attention automatically. "Ma'am."

"Oh Steve, I like him already," she breezed, striding forwards to give Bucky a peck on the cheek with her immaculate red lips. "My God," she gasped, "is that a treacle tart? You absolute treasure."

"I can see why you and Steve are friends," said Bucky, cutting two slices of pie and sliding them onto plates. "Same reactions to baked goods."

"Yes, we're practically soulmates," she agreed, giving Steve a fond look.

Steve heaved a dramatic sigh. "We'd be the perfect power couple if it weren't for our tragic homosexuality."

Natasha appeared suddenly at the counter, as if summoned from the underworld. "Natasha Romanov," she purred, offering her hand to Peggy. "Please do tell me more about your homosexuality."

Bucky and Steve managed to roll their eyes in perfect unison as the two women struck up a conversation. 

"I'm glad Peggy's only in town for one day," Steve murmured in his ear. "They'd be unstoppable otherwise."

With a nod, Bucky pulled Steve closer for a good-morning kiss. "You're overdressed," he said softly. 

Smirking, Steve pulled his hoodie over his head to reveal today's t-shirt, which simply said "NO". He saw Bucky looking at the slogan, and shrugged.

"It's multi-functional."

"You should see the one he made for me when your president visited the UK," said Peggy, tearing her attention away from Natasha, who was somehow already sitting on her lap. "It said 'Piss off, you orange wanker'."

"One of my best," said Steve proudly.

"Tony Stark will be at Steve's closing show tomorrow," said Peggy as Natasha traced over her neck and shoulder with one immaculately manicured finger. "The rumour is he's looking to start some kind of sponsorship program."

"Steve, that's wonderful!" said Natasha.

Steve let out a small noise of despair and clung to Bucky. "What if he hates it?"

"He won't hate it, you're a superstar," Bucky reminded him gently, drawing his arms over the smaller man's shoulders. 

"Darling, we're going to be late to the gallery," said Peggy, "and I need you to show me all your pieces before my flight."

They left with the whole pie, two travel cups of tea, and Natasha's phone number scrawled in lipstick on Peggy's hand.

* * *

At 4AM, just as Bucky was getting himself situated in the warm, brightly-lit kitchen for his morning bake, his phone buzzed.

**Steve:** I can't sleep :( :(

**Steve:** Are you up?

Bucky smiled indulgently at his little artist's unfounded anxieties.

**Bucky:** Wanna bake some bread?

Ten minutes later, Steve was wrapped around him in a fierce hug, and Bucky was pressing sweet kisses into the top of his blond head. 

"I'll put you to work," said Bucky. "You'll forget all your troubles and I'll get some free labour. Win-win."

"You're a jerk," Steve muttered into his shirt.

"Go and wash your hands, punk."

By the time Bucky got Steve to measure out the flour, yeast, and salt for the morning loaves, he had lost his twitchy, fretful look and was happily and loudly commenting on the baking process.

"Don't you have a machine to do that?" he asked as Bucky handed him a portion of dough to knead.

"Yeah," he grinned, "it's called a robot arm." The arm could reach great speeds with impressive dexterity, scraping and reshaping the dough before thumping it into the table. Steve did his level best, with his two human hands, to match Bucky's speed and strength, but only succeeded in becoming very red in the face and needing to pull out his asthma inhaler.

"Hey, that was pretty good," said Bucky. "You were nearly there."

"I had it on the ropes," agreed Steve, wheezing a little.

The bread dealt with and left to rise, Bucky set Steve to scrub down the work surface and started rummaging around for the gingerbread ingredients. Sticky black treacle, dark brown sugar, eggs, flour, butter, and the mix of spices.

"Smell this," he said, holding out the spice container to Steve. "See what you can pick out."

Steve took a sniff and considered for a second. "Mmm. Well, ginger, obviously. Cinnamon, nutmeg."

"Good, keep going."

"Cloves?"

"I went for allspice instead, but it's got the same kinda aniseed notes."

Steve wrinkled his nose. "The hell is allspice?"

"It's a berry that tastes like cinnamon and nutmeg and cloves all at once."

"There's something kinda... Indian in here? A bit like chai tea."

"Cardamom. One more."

He took a big sniff and then wheeled around suddenly to sneeze into the crook of his elbow.

"Black pepper," he said, sounding muffled.

"Full marks," smiled Bucky. "I'll make a baker of you yet."

Despite himself, Steve let out a big yawn, stretching his arms over his head in a catlike movement. "This helped," he said. "I'm not as stressed any more."

"Do you want to get some sleep? My apartment's just upstairs."

"You're just trying to get me into bed," mumbled Steve, nonetheless resting his whole body against Bucky.

"Is that a yes?"

"Consider this my enthusiastic consent," he yawned, snuggling closer and flinging his arms around Bucky's neck. Bucky lifted him easily and carried him up the stairs, while Steve made sleepy little snuffling noises against his neck.

He laid him gently on the bed, drawing the covers around him and planting the cinnamon roll plushie into his arms. Steve let out a happy sigh and cuddled the toy tightly, burrowing deeper into the comforter.

"G'night Bucky," he murmured, a smile playing around his lips.

"Night Stevie. I'll wake you in the morning," said Bucky, kissing him on the forehead, and went back downstairs to make the gingerbread.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As someone who's chronically ill, all the fics where Steve is a wheezy little walking medical disaster who's still worthy of love hit me right in the heart.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There were quite a few people in the gallery, and Tony Stark had already arrived. He was standing directly in front of the main exhibit, examining the brush strokes with great interest.
> 
> "Hey, you're blocking the view," someone said.
> 
> "I am the view," responded Tony, not moving.
> 
> OK. Time to be brave.

Steve woke up slowly after sleeping deeply and contentedly for a few hours. He lifted his head, leaving a trail of drool on Bucky's pillow. The baker was sitting on the edge of the bed, a warm and comforting presence by his side, and gently rubbing Steve's arm to wake him up. 

"Hey, sleepy."

"Hey yourself," Steve yawned. "I smell something nice." 

"Oatmeal. I figured you'd want a nourishing breakfast."

"You're literally a God to me, Bucky," he said with only a small amount of hyperbole, stretching luxuriantly. Mornings were usually the worst kind of indignity, but breakfast and hunky baristas went a long way towards remedying the problem. He sat up, making a nest out of the blankets, and reached for the bowl.

They ate in companionable silence, barring the occasional exclamation of adoration from Steve when he discovered that Bucky had added a little cinnamon to the oats, or when he spied the fresh, steaming mug of coffee waiting for him on the nightstand. Eventually Steve roused himself enough to get up and dressed, and they made their way down to the café.

Nat and Clint were, as usual, functioning like a poorly-oiled machine, their coffee-making workflow interrupted with constant good-natured bickering.

"I don't care if it goes well in an Irish coffee, you're banned from drinking absinthe," Natasha was saying. "The last time you had absinthe I left you at a warehouse rave and then found you under a railway bridge."

"I fell asleep!"

"It was three days later."

"I got really, really sleepy."

"You were in a different _country_."

Clint inclined his head, conceding the point. "Now that I can't explain."

"I gave you a piggyback ride half the way," broke in Bucky. "Then I lost you around when you started flirting with an _entire biker gang_."

"The hell are you talking about?" asked Steve, blinking sleepily.

"Budapest," the three ex-assassins answered in unison. It was clear there would be no elaborating on that answer, so Steve shrugged and reached over the counter to steal a piece of gingerbread.

The three of them argued for a while about the possible explanation for Clint's escapades while Steve worked his way through a couple more cookies, sliding onto a stool by the counter and resting his chin on Bucky's shoulder.

"You're meeting Stark today. Are you nervous?" said Natasha after a while, as Clint and Bucky did a spirited impersonation of the Hungarian biker gang that Clint had been so enamored with.

Steve paused mid-way through a mouthful of gingerbread and made a sad noise, yesterday's anxiety catching up with him.

"You'll be OK, little buddy," said Clint. "Tony Stark likes weird stuff, and your art is like, so weird."

Bucky shifted around to face Steve and cupped his face in his big, warm hands. "We can do this, OK?" he said, waiting for Steve to nod. 

"OK," agreed Steve, letting out a breath. Knowing that he had Bucky in his corner was a comfort. Besides, if Tony Stark didn't like his art, Bucky would probably bake him a commiseration pie. 

Bucky entertained himself bundling Steve up in a scarf, hat, coat, and gloves to walk to the subway, fussing like a mother hen about his fragile lungs. They made their way to the gallery together, enjoying the changing color of the leaves and the crisp smell of autumn.

When they arrived, they stopped outside the gallery for a second for Steve to collect himself. Bucky rested his forehead against his and they breathed together for a second, Bucky rubbing Steve's arms soothingly. Steve took a shaky breath.

"OK," he said eventually.

"OK," agreed Bucky, and they walked inside, hand in hand.

There were quite a few people in the gallery, and Tony Stark had already arrived. He was standing directly in front of the main exhibit, examining the brush strokes with great interest.

"Hey, you're blocking the view," someone said.

"I am the view," responded Tony, not moving.

OK. Time to be brave.

"Mr Stark," said Steve, striding up to him and sticking out a hand to shake. "I'm Steve Rogers. Thank you for coming here today."

"Hi, yeah," said Tony dismissively, attention still focused on the artwork. "Wait, you're the one who drew these?"

"That was me, yes."

"Pepper! Where's Pepper?" 

A tall strawberry-blonde woman in a smart suit appeared, holding a tablet in one hand. "Tony, what do you need?"

"Pepper, I like these. This is Steve."

She turned to him and gave him a polite handshake. "You must be Steve Rogers, hello."

"Hello," said Steve in a small voice, somehow more intimidated by her friendly professionalism than by Stark's effusive indifference.

"I'm Pepper Potts, CEO of the Stark Foundation." She noticed Bucky, hovering protectively behind Steve's shoulder. "And you are?" she asked, holding out her hand to him.

"James Barnes, ma'am," said Bucky, shaking her hand firmly. A twinkle of light reflected from Bucky's hand grabbed Stark's attention.

"Hey, I made this!" he said, delighted. "Pepper, look at the thing I made."

"Is this one of our prototype prosthetics?" asked Ms. Potts.

"Yes, ma'am."

Stark was prodding at the arm, grabbing Bucky's hand to rotate the wrist and inspect the movement of the plates. "How's the responsiveness? Did you go for the heat sensors? Does it ever do that thing where it starts beeping for no reason because we had some trouble with that in the earlier models, but all you have to do is whack it with a spanner and it will stop eventually."

"Tony," reproached Pepper in a gentle voice.

He looked up from where he was bending Bucky's finger backwards. "Rude?" he asked, as though he genuinely didn't know the answer.

"A little," she replied. "Why don't you go look at the rest of the art?"

Tony nodded, patting Bucky's arm consolingly, and wandered off to investigate the rest of the exhibit, absentmindedly pushing several tourists out of his way in the process.

"My apologies Mr. Barnes," said Pepper. "Mr. Stark sometimes forgets that the prosthetics are attached to real people."

"Don't worry about it," Bucky reassured her. "I'm just happy to have the arm."

"I'm glad," she said, sounding genuine. "How did you and Steve meet?"

Bucky looped an arm over Steve's shoulders and smirked. "He just kept turning up in my bakery looking for food, like a stray cat."

Steve blushed. "Bucky's the best baker in New York. He owns the Rise bakery over in Brooklyn."

"Oh, I've heard good things about that place. Do you do catering? We need someone for the Stark Expo in the new year."

"Hell yeah," said Bucky, grabbing a business card from his back pocket and pressing it into her hand. "Give us a call, you can come over for a tasting if you like."

"That would be lovely."

Having finished his tour of the artwork, Tony bounded up. "Pepper, I like these. Can I keep him? He's so little, look at him."

Steve was experiencing an emotion somewhere between excitement and annoyance. He was either going to sell Tony Stark some of his artwork, or he was going to punch him in the face, or possibly both.

"We should give him the thing," Tony continued.

"You want to give him the thing?" she clarified in an undertone.

"Yeah, I think we should give him the thing."

"What thing?" asked Steve.

Tony waved his hand dismissively. "We're talking _about_ you, not _to_ you." He turned back to Pepper. "Give him the thing."

"Steve," said Pepper, turning on her million-watt smile. "We'd like to offer you the inaugural Stark Foundation Creative Arts Grant." She handed him a piece of paper with some very large numbers on it. "The stipend should be enough to cover living expenses and materials for a year, then if we like the work you do this year we can extend it. You'll also have a place at the Stark Expo to show your work."

Looking at the number, it occurred to Steve that they may have overestimated his usual living expenses, but he wisely kept this to himself.

"I would be honored to accept, Ms. Potts," he said, shaking her hand firmly and trying not to look as surprised as he felt. He could feel Bucky at his back, radiating pride.

"You should come to my tower sometime," said Tony. "I could look into finding you some studio space or maybe adopt you as my son."

"The studio space would be good," said Steve carefully. 

"OK fine, I don't get to be your father. That's fine. I'm fine. Pepper, can we go and look at puppies? I need something small and fluffy to nurture."

"You're not getting a puppy. We've talked about this."

"OK, I'm gonna go get a puppy," called Tony over his shoulder as he strode from the room.

"It was lovely to meet both of you," said Pepper in a rush. "Steve, we'll be in touch about the grant, but the first installment should be in your account by now." She hurried after Tony, heels clicking on the wooden floor, with the air of a woman who was about to become responsible for a puppy.

Steve let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. 

"What the hell just happened?" said Bucky with an incredulous laugh.

"I think I just got a whole bunch of money to do art with."

"You did just get a whole bunch of money to do art with," agreed Bucky. They both started giggling, a little hysterically. 

"I can't believe that just happened." Steve buried his face in Bucky's sweater, breathing in his warm, wholesome scent.

"You deserve this so much, Stevie," said Bucky, kissing the top of his head. 

"You gonna start charging me for the pastries now?" he mumbled into Bucky's chest.

"Yeah, I've been keeping a tab. I'll send you a bill in the mail."

"Oh God, my money's all been spent on baked goods before I had the chance to buy the fancy pens from the art shop."

"You're like Van Gogh and absinthe."

Steve peered up at Bucky through his eyelashes.

"Worth it," he said, and pulled him in for a kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's all from these little cuties! Let me know if you have any prompts or ideas for what to do next - I'm open to making this into a series.
> 
> Thank you all so much for your comments throughout this story, they have been much appreciated.

**Author's Note:**

> For more Avengers stuff, check out [my Tumblr](https://hi-inevitable-im-dad.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Leave me a comment to let me know what you think.


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